


Kanan/Hera, Five First Times (and One Last Time)

by ShannonPhillips



Series: AUs and Out-takes [1]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 03:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4332726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShannonPhillips/pseuds/ShannonPhillips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was my first attempt to map out the progression in Hera and Kanan's relationship from <em>A New Dawn</em> to the time period of the show. Turns out it's mostly a progression in Kanan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kanan/Hera, Five First Times (and One Last Time)

**Author's Note:**

> A couple things in here contradict canon, so I now consider this to be an AU.

1\. **The first time Kanan comes aboard the Ghost,** Hera expects an adjustment period. She reminds herself to be patient. She’s been operating on her own for a long time, and human males aren’t the easiest creatures in the galaxy to share close quarters with. Especially not a human male as brash as this one, and as persistent about expressing his desire for her.

She expects she’ll need to make the lines very clear for him. She might even have to reinforce them a few times, though Kanan’s not stupid and she would never have invited him on board if she thought he would deliberately violate her boundaries. But he doesn’t know her yet, and he’s bound to accidentally knock up against a few of her sore places before he figures them out. And most likely she’ll do the same to him.

She’s prepared to be very careful, very civil, and to swallow a certain amount of aggravation during the inevitable adjustment period. But it doesn’t come.

As it happens, Kanan is far more observant and considerate than she gave him credit for. He doesn’t crowd her; in fact for the first few months he raps softly on the bulkhead before he enters any cabin she’s in, especially the cockpit. He keeps his things (of which he has very few to begin with) neatly stored in his own quarters. He finds ways to make himself useful on the ship, never shirking from even the more tedious or unpleasant duties.

And he drops the crude banter, abruptly and wholly, almost as if he understands perfectly well that the kind of heavy-handed pass she can choose to find amusing when delivered in a run-down miner’s cantina would be far less so aboard her own ship. He never calls her “sweetheart” again.

This is the not the first time he surprises her, nor will it be the last.

 

2\. **The first time Kanan and Hera fight** —really fight, not just swap a few snappy words—it’s because they’re both furious with themselves and the other keeps getting in the way.

Hera’s intel was incomplete, and she led Kanan into what was very nearly a suicide mission. He was forced to draw his lightsaber and even then they barely managed to fight their way out of a crystal refinery that turned out to be guarded by a full complement of combat droids. There had been a particularly tense moment when Hera was knocked onto the factory floor and nearly crushed by the machinery while Kanan was pinned down by the droids. She’d managed to gum up the works by severing an overhead cable (it took three blaster bolts in the exact same spot to rupture the thick laminasteel) but not before her foot was pretty badly mangled. Kanan didn’t come out unscathed either; his right shoulder is blackened and burned by electrical attacks.

Hera knows it could have been much worse, and still might be. Her mind keeps replaying the image of Kanan, overwhelmed by droids, lightsaber flashing. If _any_ of those droids’ memory cores survive, the Empire will know his secret. And it’s her fault.

Kanan’s grim and silent. Surely he’s thinking the same thing. When he finally speaks, bitterness laces his voice: “At least you got the production records.”

“You say that like it’s nothing,” Hera snaps. And maybe it is nothing—alone—but if she can put it together with some of the other data she’s gathered, she can clarify the outlines of the secret project she’s been investigating for months. Massive amounts of resources and manpower are being diverted across eight sectors in the Outer Rim, and none of it shows up on the official budgets.

“Not nothing,” Kanan says. “Just not _much_.”

Even wrapped in a kolto pack, her foot is throbbing, and the pain makes her unable to hold back her anger and frustration. “Don’t,” Hera says shortly, lifting a finger. “Believe me, I know exactly how high the price was—I’m well aware—“

His eyes flash angrily. “You nearly died.”

As if that’s the issue at stake. He’s dancing around the real threat, and it only aggravates her more. “We both know this is about you. If you want out—I could drop you off on Nar Shaddaa, you could lay low for a while—“

He rises with such sudden, violent force that she involuntarily flinches. And _that_ seems to push him even farther into fury: his face goes white with it, lips pressed hard together. “Fine,” he bites out. “If that’s how you want it.”

After he stalks out, Hera sinks her face in her hands. “That,” she whispers to the empty mess deck, “went even worse than the job.”

Eventually she hobbles up to the cockpit to put in the course correction. They could make Nar Shaddaa in a few days if they took the main trade route, but she programs in a remote and convoluted path that will keep them off the traffic manifests. It also stretches the journey to almost a week, but that’s coincidence. Mostly coincidence.

Her foot’s more or less healed after three days. But her stomach keeps twisting into knots. Finally she stops dwelling on how much of a botch she’s made of things, and starts thinking about how to fix it.

Kanan’s made himself scarce, rarely emerging from his quarters. So she goes to him.

It takes him a minute to answer her knock. When the hatch opens she sees he’s stripped to the waist, sweating, and breathing heavily. Her prepared speech drops from her mind entirely.

“Hera?” he asks, gently enough, and she realizes in embarrassment that she’s been staring.

“Oh, yes—I—what are you _doing_?”

“Soresu form, mostly,” he says. “It’s good for close-quarters fighting.” He steps back in wordless invitation, and as she enters his quarters she sees that he has his lightsaber in his hand. The blue, humming blade extends as he resumes his exercises. Hera’s glad to see that his shoulder injury—still visible as a pinker, newer layer of skin—doesn’t seem to be restricting his range of motion.

“My old master, Depa Billaba, used to drill me in the basic forms every day,” Kanan continues. He’s in a semi-crouch, the lightsaber held over his head, one hand extended with the palm upward. Slowly, fluidly, he executes a half turn, the palm twisting flat as he brings the lightsaber into an upright, blocking position. His movements are graceful but tightly controlled, and she can see the exertion of it in his taut musculature. His eyes are closed. “I haven’t practiced them in years. There’s—there’s a mental component as well. It takes focus. Discipline. All the things I’ve let slide.”

Another shift: the lightsaber traces a steady arc in front of him, then changes hands. “And to be honest, I was afraid. The body holds memories. Ones I didn’t want to confront.”

“Bad memories?” Hera asks quietly.

He opens his eyes, regards her steadily. “No. Good ones. Those are much harder.”

She nods, understanding perfectly. “Kanan—I came to tell you that I’m sorry.”

He blinks, then straightens, deactivating the lightsaber. “Sorry? Why?”

“For the refinery.”

“But that was my fault,” He sounds genuinely confused. And now she is too.

“ _Your_ fault? It was my plan. And it went badly, but not because…” She sighs. “I know exactly what you risked and I just need you to know. I don’t take it lightly.”

He shakes his head. “Your plan would have worked fine if I hadn’t failed you.”

Hera blinks in genuine astonishment. “ _Failed_ me—Kanan, you held off four droids at once—“

“Four droids? A real Jedi would have dismantled those in seconds. I’m so out of practice—I couldn’t—“ He closes his eyes again and swallows. “I will never forget the sight of you sucked into that mangler.”

“Oh, my dear,” she breathes. The endearment just slips out—his eyes snap open and she feels her face growing hot, but forges ahead as if nothing remarkable has been said. “So you thought…that I was asking you to leave because I was disappointed you couldn’t handle the droids more quickly?”

“You almost _died_ ,” he says again.

“No! Well, I mean, yes, but that’s not it at all. I suggested Nar Shaddaa because I’m worried about those droids’ memory cores. If the Empire is able to pull anything off them—they’ll see your lightsaber. They’ll know.”

Understanding settles on his face, and it looks a lot like relief. The corner of his mouth lifts. “You wanted me off the Ghost to keep _me_ safe? I don’t know, Hera, I take a lot of stupid risks without someone more sensible around to stop me.”

“That’s true,” she agrees, answering his smile. “Maybe Nar Shaddaa was a bad idea.”

“It’s a good idea as long as you’re coming with me,” he says. “I’m thinking of getting some light armor fitted—maybe a shield for this shoulder. Something that won’t slow me down, but will let me take a blaster bolt or two. Nar Shaddaa’s probably a good place to find something like that.”

“Personally, I try not to get hit,” Hera teases. “But I guess that’s asking too much of you.”

“You can ask me for anything,” he says, and the simple, straightforward truth of it makes her flush again.

The lightsaber hisses back on, and Kanan drops once more into a crouch. Hera settles on the edge of his bunk, watching him practice. After a moment she says: “I’m not asking. But if you want to talk, I’m here.”

For a long moment he’s silent, as the lightsaber traces glowing patterns around him. Then he begins: “It probably won’t surprise you to hear that I was a mouthy kid, but I think Master Billaba liked me because I couldn’t stop asking questions…”

He keeps talking as he steps through the old forms. The memories become lighter to bear when they’re shared. When he completes one drill he shifts to the next.

It won’t be their last fight. But it’s the beginning of real trust between them.

 

3\. **The first time Kanan kisses Hera,** it’s a disaster but it’s not his fault. And it’s actually their second kiss. The first time, _she_ kissed _him_.

It couldn’t have happened any other way. He’d made his feelings plain—more than plain—from the moment he met her. And she’d made it clear that while she wasn’t exactly averse to the idea, she wasn’t ready to take things any farther. Only a sleemo would keep pressing the issue.

Especially once he joins her crew, because then there’s so much more at stake. He figures out pretty quickly that Hera’s connections go farther than he’d originally guessed. There’s a larger plan behind the things they do. He hasn’t felt this kind of purpose since…well, since.

He likes it.

And he likes _her_. Not just for her warm voice and dancing eyes and the way her whole face lights up when she smiles. Not just for the way she can fly. Not just for the graceful sway of her hips, the swing of her head-tails, the quirk of her lips when she looks at him. Not just for her quick and clever mind.

He also likes her because—she needs him.

Well. Maybe _need_ is the wrong word; she had her mission before she ever met him, and she was doing just fine at it, as she’d be quick to point out if he was ever stupid enough to have this conversation with her. But the fact remains that what she’s doing is intensely difficult, dangerous, and important. And she can’t do it alone forever. She needs him, or someone like him. And there’s not many left like him.

But after the refinery disaster, Kanan also realizes that she needs him to be _better_. So he makes himself better.

It’s not a quick or an easy process, and it forces him to confront and discard some cherished illusions. Like the one where he thought of himself as a hard-bitten, hard-drinking, devil-may-care son of a Hutt. Every piece of that, he discovers, is a lie.

What he truly is—is a weapon. A fine-forged blade that is meant to be wielded in pursuit of justice and in defense of the innocent. Weapons rust when they’re set aside.

So he has placed himself in her hands. And he’ll hone his body and will to give her the edge she needs.

Which is all well and good as far as self-actualization goes, but the old adage still holds: _the plan is to the battle as the shadow is to the rancor._ And everything falls apart on Nar Shaddaa.

Finding a gray-market armor worker doesn’t seem like it should be hard. Hera’s got a few contacts, naturally: she arranges a meeting in a cantina. Kanan hangs out by the bar, nursing a Reactor Core and keeping an eye on Hera while she chats with a pair of Ugnaughts.

Afterwards she’s excited, telling him there’s a new supplier doing custom pieces in the Corellian Sector for cut-rate prices. “And get this! Apparently she can do _Mandalorian_ tech.”

“Beskar?” Kanan says, startled. “No way. I don’t have the creds for that.”

“Let me do the talking,” Hera says. “I’m good at making friends.”

Two hours later they’re crouched behind a flimsy merchant’s stall in the Corellian Sector, trading blaster fire with a group of Nikto thugs who are apparently looking for the same armor worker they are. Only the Nikto are pretty angry that she’s been undercutting their prices, and they’ve decided to take it out on her customers.

“Go ahead, Hera!” Kanan shouts as blaster fire shatters a storage container next to him. “Make friends with them!”

But she’s got her head cocked. “Do you hear that?”

He does. A beeping sound…rapidly speeding up. “Get down!” he yells, and, wrapping an arm around Hera’s waist, flings her aside. A second later, a bloom of fire swallows the entire stall and half the street in front of it.

When they push themselves up, the surviving Nikto are in full flight. The armor-worker’s stall is a crater. Kanan swears softly. “The whole place was booby-trapped,” he says. “I think the explosives were triggered when that crate was shot open.”

But Hera’s looking at something lying among the twisted girders and the remains of the street. “Kanan,” she says, stooping to pick it up. “Look at this.”

It’s a gauntlet, clearly part of the merchandise that had been stored in those crates. Other pieces of armor are strewn through the wreckage. They’re mismatched, all different colors and sizes. But they have one thing in common.

They’re all intact. The explosion devastated the industrial pre-fab stall and tore up half the street. But it didn’t even dent the armor.

“Well, toss me down the drain and call me a dianoga,” Kanan says, turning the gauntlet over in his hands. “It _is_ beskar.”

“And it’s mine,” says a girl’s voice, filtered through the speaker of a helmet. “So drop it.”

She’s perched on the roof of an overlooking building, and she’s got two blasters aimed down at them. Her armor is obviously Mandalorian in design, although Kanan’s never seen a Mando wearing so much pink. The blasters seem very serious though, and very much pointed at their heads.

“Hey,” Kanan protests mildly, “what kind of customer service is this? Bet you don’t get a lot of walk-ins.”

“Kanan,” says Hera warningly. “Let me talk. –We’re not with the Niktos!” she calls up to the Mando girl. “We’re here to buy!”

The Mando pulls up her blasters, then sheathes them. In a quick series of forward flips she jumps first to an awning, then to what remains of the top of her stall, then to the cratered street.

“I’m writing my HoloNet review now,” Kanan grumbles. “Merchandise was high quality but I was attacked by bandits and the shopkeeper tried to blow me up. Three stars.”

“ _Kanan_.”

The Mando pulls off her helmet. She’s very young, with burnished golden-brown skin, a streak of crimson in her dark hair, and a wary glint in her upswept eyes. Still, there’s also something in her face that makes Kanan’s heart twinge. She looks—defiant, but behind that—desperate. Hungry. There are hollows to her cheeks that don’t seem to belong there. She’s not much more than a child. “So what are you looking for?” she says in an over-casual tone.

Kanan and Hera trade a glance. _Well, blast,_ his eyes say to her.

 _I’ll handle this_ , hers say back.

“He wants a shoulder guard,” says Hera.

“And maybe one of these,” Kanan answers, flipping the gauntlet to the Mando girl. “It’s nice.”

She catches it one-handed. “What can you pay?”

“Not what it’s worth,” Kanan admits. “But maybe we could…help you. It seems like you’ve made some enemies, and we—“

She cuts him off. “I don’t need help. I need credits.”

“Here,” says Hera, holding out a chip. “This is what we can offer. And as a sign of good faith, we’ll pay in advance.”

The Mando snatches the credit chip in a gloved fist, plugs it into a datapad, and glowers at what she sees there. “Fine,” she says at last. “Hold still. Need to scan you to get the measurements right.”

Kanan lets her play the datapad from his head to his feet and back again. When she flicks it off she says, “I won’t be back here again. Take this. I’ll signal you when your armor is ready, and tell you where to come and pick it up.”

He plucks the device from her palm. As he pockets it Hera says: “He’s Kanan. I’m Hera. What should we call you?”

“No names over the comlink,” the Mando scowls. “And I wouldn’t linger if I were you. Even on Nar Shaddaa, they eventually send someone to see why things blow up.”

“We’ll go,” says Hera quietly. “But if you need to—you can call us. Even if it’s not about the armor.”

“Riiiiiiight,” she drawls. “Go on.”

Hera takes his hand, tugs him back and around the corner. They duck past a couple of alleys and finally turn into one. Kanan’s lagging behind.

“That girl,” he says finally.

“I know,” says Hera.

“She’s in trouble.”

“I know.”

“We could…” And he swallows, because Hera’s either several steps ahead of him or she’s going to _kill_ him for his. “We could take her on the Ghost. There’s room. She seems like she can handle those blasters…”

Hera stops, turns to him. Her eyes are huge and unreadable. Then she puts her hands on each of his shoulders and shoves him up against the wall.

 _Uh-oh_ , he has just enough time to think. But then he realizes that her body is pressed closely against his own, that she’s standing on her toes and tugging his head down to her own.

And her mouth on his is sending electric signals through every nerve in his body; he’s not sure what’s happening but he knows he doesn’t want it to stop. Gingerly, still not quite believing his luck, he moves one hand to her hip and the other to cradle the back of her head. Her lips part beneath his own…  
  
Then she pulls back. He releases her at once but she’s smiling up at him, impish. “You’ve changed, Kanan Jarrus,” she breathes, her voice deeper and rougher than usual. Her hands are still on his chest.

“I—uh—I,” he stammers.

“And you’re right,” she says, tapping one finger against his shoulder. “We should bring her on board. I just thought—we should get things decided between ourselves first.”

He clears his throat. “I’m very decided,” he says. “About things. You?”

She tilts her head. “Depends. What exactly are you hoping for—from us? How long? And under what conditions?” Her smile has faded, and her pulse is fluttering in her throat. For all her flirty bravado, he senses how important the questions are, how much is riding on his answers. He places his arms around her again, gently pulling her closer.

“Everything,” he says. “Forever. And my terms are unconditional.”

Her eyes scan his face intently. “Then,” she breathes at last, “then yes.”

His fingers tighten on her hips, and he lowers his head to hers once again. This time she melts against him fully as he kisses her slowly, thoroughly. Her fingers wind through his hair, pulling his ponytail loose, exploring and teasing. In response he strokes her head-tails, carefully, from top to tip, and feels her shiver against him.

He breaks the connection of their mouths, but only because he wants to nip at her throat and ear. She throws back her head and moans. His hair falls over his eyes as he buries kisses in the hollow of her neck and shoulder.

And that’s exactly when he becomes aware of a sound that’s been in the background for a while, but steadily growing louder: a repulsorlift engine, something big and aggressive moving through the streets and brooking no obstacles. It roars around the corner and suddenly he and Hera are bathed in the harsh spotlights of a Hutt Enforcer patrol skiff.

<<Move apart, sentients,>> an amplified voice grunts in guttural Huttese. <<You are under arrest. You have no rights and anything you say may result in your immediate disintegration. Move apart and place your hands above your heads.>>

Of all the times and on all the planets that they have been—and will be—arrested, that night in Nar Shaddaa will always remain Kanan’s favorite.

 

 **4\. The first time Hera speaks of love** it’s in the company of four hefty, porcine, highly unromantic Hutt enforcers. They have no poetry in their souls. But they do have shock prods.

“It’s fine, it’ll be fine” she’d whispered in Kanan’s ear before pulling back, her hands in the air. He’d given her a dubious sidelong glance but followed her lead, allowing the Gamorreans to confiscate their blasters, cuff their hands together at the front, and pull them unceremoniously into the back of the skiff. The most inconvenient part of it all for Kanan is that Hera pulled his hair loose, and with his hands cuffed it’s hard to keep it out of his face.

“You sure about this?” Kanan whispers as the patrol skiff roars into motion. He’s keenly aware of his lightsaber, stored in two separate innocuous-looking pieces on his belt. The enforcers had barely glanced at it.

“You ever crossed a Hutt?” she whispers back.

“Uh, no, don’t think so.”

“Then it’s fine. They’ll throw us in a holding cell, run us through their debtor databases, and as long as they don’t find anything they’ll come round for bribes in the morning. Fighting a whole patrol out in the open would bring _much_ more attention. And anyway, they’re not kidding about the disintegrations.”

One of the big pig-men unhooks the prod from his belt, thumbing it on: electricity sparks malevolently around the end. “Schuuta,” he rumbles, so they fall silent for the rest of the ride.

They disembark at a squat, unornamented guard post. Inside, they find that Hera’s predictions aren’t wrong. It’s just, as it happens, the enforcers keep gender-differentiated sentients in separate holding cells.

Kanan stiffens as one of the Gamorreans grasps Hera’s upper arm, pulling her away from the rest of the group. He takes a half-step after her, flexing his fingers, reaching for the power that will pull one of those blasters into his hands…

“No, love,” Hera says quickly, and he’s not sure which of the two words actually arrests him more.

Then a shock prod connects with his ribs and he spasms in pain. “Nnnnnggh!”

<<You come this way,>> the guard snarls, gesturing menacingly with the prod.

“All right, all right,” Kanan pants. He allows himself to be dragged away, craning his head for one last glimpse of Hera before they’re separated. When he catches her eye she’s looking after him anxiously, so he closes one eye in a quick wink, and has the pleasure of seeing her face relax into a wry smile.

Then he’s pushed down a short hallway into a darkened room where three separate cells are defined by orange energy fields. The Gamorreans lower one of the fields just long enough to shove him inside. As he crashes into the far wall, the door springs back into place behind him.

The first thing he notices is that the cell’s not empty. The second thing he notices is the _smell_. It’s musky, gamey, and nearly overpowering.

Two large yellow-green eyes blink at him from the shadows. They seem to belong to a very large, somewhat furry alien of a species Kanan doesn’t recognize. “Having a bad day?” the alien rumbles.

Kanan regains his footing, discreetly stifling a cough. And he considers the question. On the one hand, he’s been shot at, nearly blown up, lightly electrocuted, and imprisoned with a rather imposing and very fragrant cellmate of temperament yet to be determined.

On the other hand, Hera kissed him. And she called him _love_.

“No,” he says, feeling a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “As a matter of fact, I think I might be having the best day of my life.”

The alien regards him for a moment. “Great. A crazy one.”

Kanan waggles his fingers—the closest he can get to a friendly wave, given the handcuffs. “Kanan Jarrus. Crazy like a _Vjun fox_.”

“Garazeb Orrelios. Grumpy like a Lasat.”

“Lasat? I don’t know your people.”

“No reason you would,” Garazeb mutters. “Lasan is gone.”

“Ah,” Kanan says. _I’m sorry_ seems woefully insufficient, so he doesn’t say it. “So…what brings a nice Lasat like you to a place like this?”

Garazeb shrugs. “Don’t know how to keep my nose out of the wrong people’s business, I guess. I saw three big guys shaking down a skinny little Evocii and it didn’t seem fair to me. Of course it turns out the big guys work for a Hutt and now here I am.”

“Hm,” Kanan says. “That sounds like my kind of stupid.”

Garazeb makes a noncommittal grunt. “What about you? What brings you here?”

“Oh,” Kanan says airily, “she’s about one-point-eight meters tall and, my friend, you should see how she flies.”

“Lady trouble. Gotcha. You’re beeping.”

“No, we're not!” Kanan objects. "Also, that's a little personal."

“You’re _beeping_ ,” the Lasat repeats.

“Oh, is that me?” Kanan struggles to maneuver his cuffed hands to a pocket, finally drawing out the Mando’s comlink. He thumbs it on. “Yeah?”

“Did you mean it?” her voice crackles through. “About—about helping.”

“We did,” says Kanan, shifting abruptly from idle-banter mode to serious-business mode. “The Niktos find you?”

“I can handle a bunch of lowlife thugs. No. This is—“ he can hear her indrawn breath through the static. “This is Imperial trouble.”

“As it happens,” Kanan says, “Imperial trouble is our speciality. Where are you? Can you get to the spaceport?”

A pause. “Yeah,” she says finally.

“Okay. If you get there before us, just try to keep a low profile and hang tight. We’re in a bit of a, um, tight spot but we’ll be there soon.”

The com-link connection dies abruptly.

“That’s interesting,” the Lasat comments.

“Yes, well,” Kanan says, scanning the corners of the cell and what he can see of the room beyond, “our life’s not boring. How would you feel about a jailbreak, Garazeb Orrelios?”

He grins, an unsettling expression that reveals predator-sharp teeth. “Zeb,” he says. “Call me Zeb.”

“All right, Zeb,” says Kanan, “get ready, because I have a feeling that poorly-secured cabinet is about to topple over and disengage the lock for this cell.” He gestures, and—

“Huh?” says Zeb, turning to look.

—Kanan gives the cabinet a quick Force pull. It groans, wobbles, and finally crashes down.  
  
Unfortunately it’s got a good bit more inertia behind it than he intended: instead of gently tapping the toggle button for the cell gates as it falls, it ends up smashing into and _through_ the entire control panel. Electrical sparks shower from the panel and the energy fields for all three cells crackle, fizzle, and finally fail. Kanan ducks, shielding his head with his hands until the electrical storm has passed.

Somewhere in the distance, an alarm begins to blare.

As Kanan cautiously straightens, he finds himself standing in the dimly-lit chamber with Zeb and six other prisoners—the inhabitants of the other two cells. They’re a mix of human and aliens, but all seem to share a certain intimidation factor. Maybe it has something to do with the sneers, and all the scars.

“Hey, hi,” says Kanan. “Glad to the make the acquaintance of…all you fine gentlemen…”

“There a problem?” growls Zeb.

A Zabrak steps forward, looks Zeb up and down. “No problem,” he says finally, then turns and gestures to the main doors. “This one still locked?”

The other prisoners swarm the doors, kicking, pushing, and banging futilely at the metal doors. At last they split, three on each side, trying to pull them apart by main force.

Zeb hangs back with Kanan, who’s working at the cuffs. They’ve got an electronic lock—if he can get the right angle, he thinks he can short-circuit them by holding them over the sparking control panel. The trick will be not dying of electrocution.

“How did you know that was going to happen?” Zeb says, leaning over confidentially to watch Kanan play with electricity. “With the cabinet.”

“Good instincts,” says Kanan. And then yelps—a stray spark has landed on his cheek, singing his skin. But the cuffs pop open. He turns to Zeb. “Want me to do yours?”

It’s easier the second time. Zeb’s cuffs fall away.

And suddenly—the main doors part with a whoosh. But not because the prisoners managed to force them. There are Hutt enforcers on the other side: two humans, two Gamorreans. Kanan ducks back, flattening himself against the wall as they open up a volley of blaster fire.

The Zabrak grabs one of his fellow prisoners as a human shield, and surges forward. The rest of his men are close on his heels. There’s cursing, shooting, the wet and heavy thuds of bodies hitting the ground.

And then the path is clear. The Zabrak and his surviving men take off at a run. Kanan follows more carefully, glancing both ways down the corridor before he steps out. He spares a glance for the unfortunate prisoner who had the role of meatshield: his body lies, riddled with blaster fire, among the battered remains of the guards.

“Listen,” says Kanan, as Zeb joins him the corridor. “You probably want to follow the others. I’m headed deeper inside, to look for the other cellblock.”

“Well,” rumbles Zeb, “then you’re going through _them_.”

Kanan whirls, hand going to his blaster—which is, of course, not there. Two more of the Gamorrean enforcers have rounded the corner, weapons drawn.

But Zeb launches forward. The enforcers seem startled by his speed: one of them manages to pull off a couple shots, but Zeb ducks and leaps, bounding halfway up the wall and then springing off to come crashing fist-first into the guard’s tusked face. They both go down, thrashing and rolling.

The other one aims down at the floor, jerking the blaster back and forth as he tries futilely to get a bead on Zeb. Kanan starts to sidle forward.

With an oinking noise of frustration, the guard drops his blaster and reaches behind his back for the startlingly large axe that’s strapped there. Kanan takes the opportunity to roll in and scoop up the abandoned blaster.

The enforcer sees him and curses in Huttese, raising the axe high. Kanan comes out of the roll with the blaster in his hand, steadies it against one knee, and fires.

The enforcer staggers back and slides down the wall, axe clattering to the floor. Meanwhile Zeb’s gained the upper hand on his opponent: one last, hard punch and the tusked enforcer goes limp.

“Good,” Kanan pants. “Thanks. Now I’ve still got to find—“

“Me?”

He raises his eyes to see Hera smirking at him. He lets out a sigh that’s half laughter as he stands up.

“I broke out when I heard the alarm,” she says. “Figured you’d changed the plan. Who’s your friend?”

“Garazeb Orrelios,” the big guy jumps in. “Zeb.”

“Well, Zeb, it’s an honor,” Hera says, giving him one of her sweetest smiles. Zeb responds with a toothy yet somehow bashful grin.

“Here,” she continues, turning to Kanan: “I stopped by the storage locker. Thought you might be missing this.” She holds out a blaster, extending the grip towards him. It’s his own.

“You’re right,” he says, returning it to his leg holster. Then he quirks an eyebrow at her meaningfully. “I _was_ missing this.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know, we could have just walked out of here tomorrow morning for the cost of a perfectly reasonable pair of bribes. But now Nar Shaddaa’s going to be hot for us for the forseeable future.” Her head tilts, her assessing gaze sliding from him to Zeb. “So I’m trusting that you have a good reason for this.”

Kanan flashes the comlink. “Priority transmission,” he says. “I told her to meet us at the spaceport. She needs to move now.”

“Then let’s move,” Hera says. “Zeb, are you coming?”

“Oh,” says Kanan, “We didn’t talk about—“

“I heard you say you specialize in Imperial trouble,” Zeb cuts in. “Remember what I told you about Lasan?”

“His homeworld,” Kanan explains for Hera’s benefit. “It’s been—”

“I know what happened to Lasan,” she says.

Kanan sighs and stops trying to talk.

“And I know who was responsible,” Hera continues. She holds Zeb in her steady gaze. There’s no pity in her face. Just understanding. “So: Zeb, are you coming?”

“If you’ll have me,” he says. “Trial basis, anyway.”

It quickly becomes obvious that running with Zeb requires different tactics from the ones Hera and Kanan used on their own. Blending into crowds, for instance, is pretty much out of the question. On the other hand, hailing a hover taxi is much easier. When they come pelting out of the guard post, all Zeb has to do is step into a traffic lane and slam both furry hands down on the bonnet of the taxi as the droid at the controls frantically brings the vehicle to a screeching halt.

“This is most irregular!” the droid fusses. “A violation of—of—“ Its eyes whirl as it searches its databanks for relevant traffic protocols. But as the only laws in Nar Shaddaa are those that bear directly on the Hutt Cartel and its business interests, the droid is left speechless.

Zeb squashes himself into the hover taxi’s back seat, and Kanan wedges into what little space is left beside him. Hera swings into the droid’s lap, shouldering its hands off the controls and punching in a rapid sequence of keys.

“Oh my!” the droid flutters. “I am not equipped to accommodate passengers in this area! I must ask you to desist immediately!”

“Sorry, bud,” Hera says. “If it helps, you’re about to get the ride of your operating life. Now move over.”

The engines flare to life, roaring with full power. The hover taxi rises into the air and surges forward, making better speed than it likely has during its entire period of service. Hera begins to weave through the skies’ traffic, hopscotching past slower vehicles and skillfully threading congested lanes. A chorus of horns, honks, and choice profanities of multiple languages echo in their wake.

“I must ask you to—“ the droid sputters. “I must ask you to—I must ask you to update my programming! This is very invigorating indeed!”

Unfortunately, as they approach the spaceport’s public landing pad, it becomes obvious that traffic is being re-routed. Hulking black vehicles marked with the Imperial insignia crouch at choke points, and stormtroopers are milling around the spaceport’s entrance.

“The Empire doesn’t have jurisdiction here,” Kanan protests. “What are they doing?”

“So long as they pay off the Hutts,” Zeb says bitterly, “the Imps can do anything they want.”

Hera glances over her shoulder. “Looks like a manhunt. You think our Mandalorian friend made it through?”

“Hope so,” Kanan says quietly.

“Well, the good news is that this Imperial operation is going to get in the way of the Hutt enforcers tracking us, so that might actually improve our chances of getting off Nar Shaddaa. The bad news is—we can’t be entirely sure the Imperials aren’t looking for _us_.”

“You’re still worried about those droid memory cores, aren’t you?”

Hera doesn’t answer. There’s only two cars between them and the Imperial cruisers. Then one.

“Halt for identification,” says a stormtrooper’s voice, as Hera guides the taxi into the choke point. She flashes a brilliant smile up at the window of the cruiser. In the back seat, Kanan and Zeb attempt the same, though Zeb’s is rather sickly.

Blue light plays over the entire vehicle. There’s a long, stomach-churning pause. Then something beeps.

“You’re clear,” says the stormtrooper, and Kanan looses a long breath. “Proceed to the landing pad.”

“I do hope you’ll seek out my services again!” the droid chirps as they tumble out of the hover taxi. “Pleasant travels!”

The stormtroopers by the spaceport doors wave them through. Inside, Kanan scans the crowd for any glimpse of pink, but nothing stands out.

“I have some belongings stashed in a compartment here,” Zeb says. “One piece in particular that I can’t leave.”

“Go get it,” Kanan assents. “Meet us at hangar 4B.”

The crowds thin as they approach the hangars. A prickling sense on the back of Kanan’s neck makes him glance over his shoulder: a slim figure in a brown cloak and cowl seems to be angling towards them. She’s pushing a large crate. Kanan touches Hera’s elbow, and she simply nods as the girl falls into step beside them.

She doesn’t speak until they’ve actually entered the hangar. The Ghost, along with a half-dozen other ships, is waiting for departure. As they approach, Chopper lowers the gangway and begins pelting them with questions and demands.

The Mandalorian girl studies the Ghost for several long minutes. “Where’s your ship headed?” she asks finally.

“Garel system, I think,” Hera says, looking up from her communion with Chopper.

“Pretty heavy Imperial presence on Garel.”

“That’s why we’re going there,” Hera says. “It’s a place we can do some good.”

The Mando seems to think that over. Finally she pushes back the hood of her cloak, revealing her brightly-colored hair. “There’s a statue there I’d like to see. By Janyor of Bith.”

“Hey, there’s Zeb,” Kanan says. He lifts an arm, waving vigorously, and the Lasat strides over to them.

But the girl’s eyes flash angrily.

“No names!” she hisses, pulling her hood back up. “You never know who—“ She breaks off in a short, frustrated huff. “Look. You’re One, she’s Two, whoever your friend is can be Three, and I’m Four, okay? You _never_ know who’s listening.”

“Actually Hera should be—“ Kanan starts, but the girl cuts him off with a finger to her lips.

“ _Hsssst!_ ”

“She’s not wrong, dear,” Hera says thoughtfully. “Except this is Three.” She pats the top of Chopper’s head, and the droid makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a raspberry.

“All right, then, I’m Five.”

“What are we talking about?” Zeb asks as he draws in. He has a long, thin package across his back that Kanan strongly suspects holds some sort of lethal weapon. “Wait, were you talking about _me_?”

“Code names,” Hera says. “Here, I’ve got it.” She points to Kanan: “Spectre One.” Touches her own chest: “Spectre Two.” Lays a hand on Chopper: “Spectre Three.” Points to Zeb: “Spectre Four.”

“Code names,” Zeb rumbles. “Cool.”

“And Spectre Five,” Hera says. “But let me make one thing clear. Spectre One is our field general—“

“I am?”

“—but this is my ship, and I’m the captain. I decide who crews it. And when I give you orders, you will follow them, or else you will leave at the next port.” Her words are firm, but she softens them with a smile. “Welcome aboard.”

Later—much later—after the Ghost has left Nar Shaddaa far behind, after Sabine has softly disclosed her true name, after bunks have been chosen and belongings stowed—Hera tells Kanan that recruitment has always been part of her mission. That Kanan himself wasn’t the first promising malcontent she’s tapped for her cause, and that Zeb and Sabine are unlikely to be the last.

He’s not sure how he feels about that, and it must show on his face, because she touches one affectionate finger to his chin.

“Don’t worry, love,” she says. “There will never be another like you.”

So there, safely enfolded in the Ghost’s thrumming heart, with the stars hurtling around them and the infinite night to support them, he kisses her again. And this time they are not interrupted.

 

 **5\. The first time Hera brings Kanan into her bed** it’s both less and more than he would have ever imagined, back when he first followed her down a filthy alley on Gorse.

Less, because even in the captain’s cabin the bunks are narrow. And in the newly-full ship it’s difficult to find privacy and time.

And it’s also less in the way that reality is always less perfect than fantasy, less smooth, less easy. There are awkward moments—before Kanan will share the night with her, he needs to tell Hera that his medical history is not spotless. They talk about risks. They talk about contingencies.

They discover that they don’t fit together perfectly. They are, after all, different species. There are false starts and fumbles. There are moments of nervous laughter.

But even that, or especially that, is what makes it so much more than the fantasy. Because in everything they share there is trust and there is kindness. They are discovering each other together; they are giving themselves, together. Even the mis-steps are joyful.

And Kanan, who once thought his own experience of the carnal act rather sweeping, learns that he knew nothing at all. He has never known how it feels to be fully stripped before another—without reserve, without secrets, without shame. He has never known what it is to care so much for the other that her body’s responses move him more deeply than his own. He has never allowed himself to feel so much, to fall so far, to surrender everything and have it returned tenfold.

He gives her his tenderness and his devotion. She gives him her generosity and her delight. They laugh, and gasp, and whisper instructions and confessions. They cling to each other. She falls asleep in his arms.

He lies awake, thinking of every mistake and every loss that has led him to this place. He cannot frame it as a bargain; his past is not redeemed by the present, nor can he purchase future happiness with the coin of yesterday’s sorrow.

But he can see how every piece of it rests together, and rests with him now, just as Hera’s breath gently sighs against him. And he can be at peace.

 

 **6\. The last time that Kanan fears his own heart:** Somewhere between the beginning of the night, and its end.

There is a part of him that goes stark with terror when he thinks of everything that Hera means to him. He has, after all, lost those he loved before. For a long time he thought the answer was never to love again.

He knows better now. That way may work for some, but for him it’s no way at all. He’s found his path now, and all he can do is follow it. To be alive and open to the world is to be vulnerable.

All he can do to protect her is to _be_ hers. To be with her. To stand against her enemies, to place his trust in her friends. All he can give her is the best of him.

One thing he feels with certainty: he will never lose what she has given him. Even if, someday, he loses her.


End file.
